


Push and Pull

by twoseas



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, POV Paz Vizsla, Post-Season/Series 02 Finale, The Mandalorian (TV) Season 2 Spoilers, The Mandalorian Darksaber (Star Wars), clear star wars chronology whomst?, making up backstory left and right, some fighting some feelings a big crush on Din Djarin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:49:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28785969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoseas/pseuds/twoseas
Summary: Din Djarin keeps catching Paz’s attention.Featuring childhood in the fighting corps, harsh words as teens, even harsher words as adults, a reunion, and the insistent feelings of one Paz Vizsla.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Paz Vizsla, The Armorer (The Mandalorian TV) & Din Djarin
Comments: 85
Kudos: 318
Collections: Most Favs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started as a small idea about Din being relatively unbeatable in a fight if his opponent talks that shit first and then I fed it after midnight and next thing you know Paz Vizsla is on a whole emotional journey through the years, orbiting around Din Djarin. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

**The Foundling**

  
  


Paz joined his father, the two of them strutting into one of the fighting corps’ training areas. Mentors observed the trainees with sharp eyes, correcting forms and offering advice to improve performance. Most of the kids in this area were Paz’s age, perhaps a little younger. 

“How do they look?” Paz’s father asked one of the mentors closest to the entrance. 

“Very good,” the mentor complimented, making notes on her datapad. “Should they all swear to the creed, we’ll have a capable new generation of warriors within the tribe. Only a few heavy infantry candidates to join our young Mandalorian here though.”

Paz looked up at the mentor’s friendly chuckle as she indicated to a small group of slightly larger kids. Younger than Paz but nearly as large. They were practicing hand to hand, grappling with each other on a mat. 

“Perhaps Paz will offer them some advice on what to expect one of these days,” Paz’s father mentioned with a proud tilt to his helmet. Paz had only just sworn the creed, younger than most but with just as much conviction as any of the older Mandalorians, and he wondered if his helmet allowed for the same level of expression or if it was something that came with time. 

Paz nodded his head, pleased that his father would consider him knowledgable enough to offer aid to those younger than him. 

They turned as one when yelling broke out on the training floor. 

Scuffles were common, Mandalorians and those in training always arguing and fighting over something or other, but still they all stopped to watch. The mentors eyed the trainees carefully, ready to intercede if the fight escalated past yelling to something more out of hand. 

One of the taller trainees shouted down at a smaller boy. They were both dressed in training armor complete with helmets, but that did little to disguise the shorter trainee’s slight form. The screaming trainee was as tall as Paz, sounded the same age if his cracking voice was any indication, and the other must have been a few years younger. 

“Din Djarin,” the mentor muttered to Paz’s father, helmet tilted towards the boys. 

“Loud little bastard,” his father muttered back. “But he’ll fit in.”

She chuckled. “Not that one. The quiet one.”

The small boy stood there, allowing the taller figure to shout him down. He didn’t even tense or move. The larger trainee moved in threateningly close, looming over the smaller boy. 

Still the boy didn’t move.

Paz frowned at the still figure.

“Is this common?” Paz’s father asked uncertainly. 

“He’s unassuming. It’s made him a target of the brasher trainees,” the mentor told him wryly. “Watch.”

Some of the mentors started murmuring to each other while the trainees continued looking on curiously. 

The larger trainee shoved the smaller boy and the boy still didn’t fight back.

“No killer instinct,” Paz’s father sighed, disappointed. 

“Keep watching,” the mentor ordered lightly. 

The aggressor shouted loud enough for them to hear his words. “Why did they even bring you here? Fight me, coward!”

The mentors all tensed at the heavy insult and one slowly made their way towards the two trainees to intercede now that such words were spoken.

Paz scowled at the two boys, neither of whom seemed to understand what it was to be Mandalorian. To use such insults on so slight a provocation was foolish. To allow it showed a lack of pride and fighting spirit…

And then Din Djarin moved. 

Paz’s mouth dropped while his father’s helmet tilted up in intrigued surprise. The mentor hummed, pleased. 

Din Djarin dealt several quick punches to spaces unprotected by training armor, knocking the wind out of the taller trainee. He kicked out at the side of the taller trainee’s leg, making him lose balance and fall to his knees. He then grabbed the back of the taller trainee’s helmet and pulled, bringing his own knee up at the same time. 

The sound of the small boy’s knee connecting with the training helmet rang throughout the training floor. 

Din Djarin stepped around to the taller boy’s back and kicked out with a grunt, knocking him visor down on the training mat. 

While his opponent slowly struggled into an upright position, Din Djarin turned to the nearest mentor and asked, small voice polite if slightly breathless, “May I go to the shooting range?”

“Yes. You’re done sparring for the day,” the mentor confirmed with a proud set to their crossed arms. “Good job, Din.”

“Thank you.”

The small figure moved out of the training room and down the hall that led to the range, seemingly oblivious to the visor covered stares that followed.

“Huh,” Paz’s father mused. 

“He’s a foundling,” the mentor informed them. “Our beroya has taken an interest. We think he may adopt him.”

“Really, the beroya? Much as he dotes on the foundlings, I never thought he’d want a child of his own,” Paz’s father chuckled. “How long has Din Djarin been training in the fighting corps?”

“A little more than a year,” the mentor answered. “He was brought in by Death Watch when his village was destroyed.”

“He’s doing well for such a short time in training.”

“He’s a fast learner, not too prideful. He’ll ask for help when he struggles and he’ll put in the extra time if need be. And as you’ve just seen he isn’t quick to anger which allows him to fight with level headed consideration…usually.”

“Usually?” Paz’s father looked at the mentor and down to Paz, amusement clear.

“Strange things set his temper off,” the mentor laughed. “During language lessons one of the older boys said his mando’a sounded like a dying loth cat. He threw a chair at him.”

“Well,” his father huffed. “I get why the beroya might be interested in adopting him. They’re practically the same person.”

Paz still hadn’t looked away from where the boy, Din Djarin, had disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beroya: The mentors tell me you were in a fight today.  
> Din: Yes, sir.   
> Beroya: Did you win?   
> Din: Yes.   
> Beroya: Very good. Here’s a new blaster and a cup of hot chocolate. Walk with me, kid. Have you considered a career in bounty hunting?


	2. Chapter 2

**The Friend**

  
  


Paz wasn’t sure how it happened, but he befriended the quiet foundling. Or the boy befriended him. 

One day he’d barely learned the foundling’s name, next thing he knew he was showing him how to use the bigger artillery. And then Din Djarin was watching him train and he was giving Din advice. Soon enough it felt like Paz had something of a shadow. If Din wasn’t in lessons, he was following Paz around. 

Din didn’t talk much, but when he did he was funny, dry, and occasionally just a little bit naive. 

He always made Paz smile under the helmet.

\- - -

They sat across from each other, Paz cleaning his vibroblade while Din did the same to his blaster. 

Din hadn’t sworn the creed yet, face exposed when he wasn’t training. 

“Here,” Din said after nearly fifteen minutes of silence. 

Paz watched as Din slid a piece of poorly wrapped cake across the table. 

“What’s that?”

Din tilted his head and looked at Paz, brow quirking in an unimpressed frown. “Cake.”

Paz blustered, “I know what cake is! You know what I mean.”

Din cracked a half smile. “The beroya brought some from his last trip. He gave it to the foundlings.”

“And you saved me a piece?”

Din shrugged and went back to cleaning his blaster, another gift from the beroya. 

Paz tipped his helmet up enough to take a bite. 

“It’s good. Thanks.”

“…you’re welcome.”

“How’s your Tusken coming?” Paz asked, mouth still full.

“I almost lost my voice when you were on that supply run with your father. But I can sign a lot more now.”

“Cool. Want to show me? Make sure you translate this time. You always forget to translate as you sign.”

Din smiled, the corners of his eyes creasing. “Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paz: Yesterday Din fell off the second story of a building and didn’t tell anyone. I only found out because I caught him bandaging his knee with a torn piece of his own shirt and tape. An hour later he set another trainee’s cape on fire because they made fun of how he said ‘bounty hunter.’   
> Paz: ...  
> Paz: Din is the best person I have ever met.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Mistake**

  
  


Paz was pacing and he could hear the heavy fall of his boots with every step. 

It rang in his ears, background noise that accentuated his worry. 

“Hey, Paz.”

He stopped to face Din. Din didn’t have any pure beskar yet, but he’d taken the creed and now wore full armor painted brown. He blended in with the dark stone walls. 

“She’ll be alright,” Din offered, words carefully enunciated and shoulders stiff. 

Paz could almost imagine what expression he’d be making. Before taking the creed Din always had such an expressive face. He’d probably be grimacing, a slightly panicked look in his eyes. Like Paz, Din didn’t handle emotionally charged moments all that well.

“We haven’t heard from her in weeks,” Paz grit out, suddenly furious. 

“And you didn’t expect to. Her quest required it. She’s a skilled warrior and a capable pilot,” Din told him, hands held out peaceably. “Whatever trouble found her, she can handle.”

That only made Paz angrier. 

“My sister,” he hissed, “is out there while I’m sat here useless and ignorant of where she is and what’s happened to her. If she’s under attack. If her ship has been captured.”

“Paz…”

“She could be dead,” Paz growled. “While I’m stuck entertaining grown foundlings like you who will never be half the Mandalorian she is.”

Din didn’t reel back so much as take a slow, measured step back. “She’ll be fine,” Din assured him, voice low. 

He left and Paz started pacing again. 

\- - - 

“We’ve got her transmission,” Paz’s uncle declared, bursting into Paz’s quarters. “Her ship took damage, malfunctioned and dropped her out of hyperspace. She’s been drifting. Let’s go get her.”

Paz leapt to his feet. 

\- - -

Paz returned to the tribe, his sister and uncle right alongside him. They were alive and well and Paz felt a prickle of guilt for what he said to Din. 

And Din was right. 

His sister had fought off and destroyed her attackers. She piloted her damaged ship to safer space. And she was perfectly fine if a little banged up and tired of eating rations. She was also successful in her quest for a beskar greave, the armor piece salvaged from the wreck of a pleasure barge belonging to a syndicate lieutenant who got on the wrong side of their own captain. 

Paz was in high spirits despite the guilt, knowing he could make it up to Din. He probably wouldn’t even have to apologize. Paz could just offer to help with his weapons modifications and Din would know what he meant. He would accept Paz’s help and they’d talk about the pros and cons of certain mods. The conversation would turn to other things and they’d be back to being on good terms. He wouldn’t hold a grudge over Paz’s hastily spoken words. Din was like that.

Paz realized something was wrong, his sister and uncle tensing as well. They followed the familiar path to the forge, taking in the melancholy air of the Mandalorians they passed. 

“You’ve retrieved the beskar,” their Armorer noted, pleased though somber as he accepted Paz’s sister’s offering. “It’s good that it has been restored to the tribe. You bring great honor to Clan Vizsla and to all of us.”

“This is the way.”

“This is the way.”

The Armorer nodded to his apprentice who opened a case and removed several tools and raised the heat of the forge.

“What’s happened?” Paz finally asked, unable to contain his concern. 

The Armorer sighed as he melted down the greave. Its owner was impossible to discover, no identifying marks or paint on the beskar. It would be remade into something new to aid the tribe. “The beroya has died a warrior’s death.”

Paz froze. 

The apprentice poured the molten beskar into a new form under the Armorer’s supervision. “There is enough here for more than one piece of armor. The original greave was made thicker than necessary for protection, fashioned in an older style.”

“You’re correct,” the Armored said approvingly. “Enough material for three vambraces.”

“One for each of you,” the apprentice said, noting the durasteel they used in place of pure beskar, their armor a mix of beskar and durasteel despite being complete. They had more beskar than many clans, but Clan Vizsla was comprised of many and there was only so much beskar to go around. “And any excess added to the collective.”

The Armorer nodded.

They thanked the Armorer and his apprentice respectfully, understanding the honor of the offer.

“Is Din here?” Paz asked as the apprentice worked at their new armor pieces under the Armorer’s proud watch. 

“No,” the Armorer answered. “He is taking vengeance in the name of our fallen brother.”

Paz’s voice was strained, a painful tension in his throat. “Where?”

The Armorer’s apprentice glanced at Paz. “He returns late tonight if all goes to plan.”

Paz swallowed harshly. 

He prayed all went to plan. 

\- - -

The tribe moved with purpose as word of Din’s return spread. 

They gathered against the walls of the forge, the Armorer and his apprentice already sat at their low table in wait. 

Din arrived and Paz’s chest tightened. 

The beroya’s helmet shone in the light of the forge, unpainted as the beroya always preferred. 

Only now it covered Din’s face, replacing the brown painted durasteel helmet Din wore since he swore himself to the creed. 

Din moved with a heavy, burdened sadness saturating his lanky limbs, a bag slung across his back. He set the bag on the table before taking his seat.

“Are they dead?” The Armorer asked, voice harsh in his own grief. It was no secret that the Armorer and beroya had been close, comrades in arms since meeting as foundlings. 

“Yes.” His own modulated voice creaked. “And the rest of his armor recovered.”

Mourning fell thick and stifling over the tribe.

The apprentice removed the beroya’s armor from the bag with steady, reverent hands. “You have the right to wear this armor, Din Djarin.”

“Why do you only wear the helmet? Does the rest need to be reshaped?” The Armorer inquired, picking up the cuirass. It would look large on Din, but he was only fifteen years old and growing. It would eventually fit him well.

“No.” Din looked down at the armor of his mentor - the beroya never did officially adopt him. “The rest should be used to sponsor the foundlings. He would…be happy with that.”

The Armorer nodded while his apprentice regarded Din, both radiating approval. 

“This is the way,” they said. 

“This is the way.”


	4. Chapter 4

**The Bounty Hunter**

  
  


A week after the old beroya was added to their remembrances, Paz saw Din modifying his Ambran rifle and offered to help.

“No, thank you,” was his low uttered answer. He then rose to his feet, gathered his weapon and tools, and left with a terse nod. 

Paz chewed on the inside of his cheek, an uneasy feeling rising up in his gut. 

\- - -

When Paz next approached Din, the bounty hunter made an excuse about repairs for his ship and left with another of those terse nods in farewell. 

Paz walked down halls and entered rooms, the brief flash of silver around corners the only trace of Din he was allowed. 

Din never again sought him out. 

When his concerned sister asked what was wrong, why Din was seen so infrequently, Paz stifled his sorrow with irritation and indifferent words. 

He could tell she saw past it, but she was kind and didn’t say. 

\- - -

Nobody called him Din anymore. It was either beroya or bounty hunter if it was anything at all. 

He was without a clan, no one there to speak his name or see his face.

He walked through the covert quietly, he spoke little. He left, he came back with credits or beskar or both, he left again. 

Only the foundlings saw him with anything resembling frequency, Din sometimes visiting the training rooms when he returned from jobs. After his brief visits, the foundlings would have their hands clasped around trinkets and small treats, their heads filled with awkwardly given advice and new knowledge, their hearts buoyed by genuine compliments when they showed off to their mysterious bounty hunter. 

But otherwise Din remained a ghost to his own people. 

It made Paz uneasy and unhappy. Din gave much to the tribe, but he asked for little in return and he didn’t seek out the companionship that was implicitly offered.

They used to be friends. 

The only comfort Paz could cling to was the fact they were still brothers. 

After the Purge, that was more important than almost anything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paz: Din’s so stupid. Who even wants to hang out with him anyway? Not me. Nope. Not kriffing me.  
> Paz’s sister: You’re my brother and you’re sad, so I’m going to pretend to believe you and ignore the fact that you’re crying right now.  
> Paz, angrily sobbing: Thanks.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Sin**

  
  


Paz let his anger get the better of him, rage filling his chest and flashing in his vision. 

He didn’t just call Din a coward, he tried to prove it by removing his helmet and threatening harm. 

He felt the vibrations of Din’s own knife. Hardly any more pressure and Paz would be facing severe injury or worse. All because he let his temper flare. 

He wasn’t better than that taller boy on the training floor all those years ago after all. 

\- - -

Paz saluted Din and returned to the covert. They would need to move fast, get the foundlings out, plan a distraction to move as many of the tribe as they could before any Imps caught on. 

Paz swallowed around a lump in his throat. 

Din did this all on his own. The bounty. The deal. The decision to turn on the guild and the Imps to rescue the child. 

Maybe if he had a friend, he would’ve sought out help. 

Maybe he would’ve included the tribe in his plans. 

Maybe if he didn’t think they considered him a coward, he would’ve gone to them.

Paz cleared his throat. 

It was too easy to choke on maybes.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Separation**

  
  


It was Paz’s turn with the foundlings and he did his best to entertain them, calm them, and assure them. 

During a lull in their time together, one of them reached into a bag they carried. “I think this is the last of it.”

The other foundlings gathered around him in a ceremony that left Paz bemused. A slice of some kind of fruit cake was removed with care from the bag. The boy with the bag then pulled a knife from the sheath strapped to his calf. 

He looked around and started counting, slicing the cake in evenly portioned pieces. 

He offered a piece to Paz, who accepted it before he could fully realize what was happening. 

“What’s this?”

“Cake,” the foundling said, looking at Paz like he was crazy. 

Paz laughed and then found he almost wanted to cry. “I know what cake is,” he said gently. “I mean, where is it from?”

“This was the beroya’s last gift to us,” one of the younger foundlings said, eating her portion with the tiniest possible bites, making it last. 

Paz considered the small piece and lifted the edge of his helmet enough to fit the cake in his mouth.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, heart warm but also constricted. “It’s good.”

The foundlings all nodded and they ate in companionable silence. 

They fell asleep soon after. 

Paz stood guard over them until another came to take his place. 


	7. Chapter 7

**The Leader**

  
  


The Armorer sent them a coded message and they came. She had salvaged all the armor left by their fallen brothers and sisters and found a new sanctuary for them. She had sent Din on a quest for the child. 

“He is tenacious, he will succeed,” she assured them, crafting a helmet for the newest foundling to swear the creed. 

Paz and those who knew Din nodded. 

\- - -

Nearly a year later, Din returned. 

His ship was different. 

And so was he. 

\- - -

Din sat in front of the Armorer in her new forge and the reunited tribe stiffened and froze in shock when he removed his helmet, setting it carefully on the table between them. 

The Armorer watched him in silence, the rest of the tribe beginning to shift as noises and words built up force under their chins. Paz dropped his eyes as he fought the urge to look and, even worse, the urge to yell. 

“The foundling is with the Jedi,” Din said, voice unmodulated. 

“You succeeded in your quest,” the Armorer said carefully. 

“Yes. But I’ve broken the creed. I’ve removed my helmet twice in the presence of others. The armor is no longer mine to wear.” Din started to detach his left vambrace, Paz’s eyes caught by the motion as he continued avoiding looking at his face. “Do with it as you see fit, though I would like the beskar to go to sponsoring the foundlings. But…the pauldron with the mudhorn signet. I wish to give it to my son if you decide that is appropriate. If you don’t…I understand.”

“Cease, Din Djarin,” the Armorer commanded, laying her hand over Din’s to stop him from taking off his right vambrace. Din’s hands were shaking faintly. “Explain. Why did you remove your helmet?”

Some of the tribe moved and muttered at the questioning. 

Paz lost the fight with his desire to look, gut twisting as he took in Din’s face. 

Din frowned, confusion etched in the furrow of his brow. “I first removed it to gain access to information on the child’s location. He was taken from me and I needed to rescue him.”

“I fail to see how such action constitutes a breaking of the creed,” the Armorer said to more furious muttering from the tribe. She ignored them. “Foundlings are the future. If necessary, all must be sacrificed to ensure their safety, protection, and care. Removing your helmet to rescue the child is not breaking the creed, but upholding it.”

Din exhaled long and slow. “Even if the first time was acceptable, the second was not. I removed my helmet to say farewell to my son before he left with the Jedi.”

“He is of your clan,” the Armorer pointed out. “It is allowed.”

“Others were there,” Din contradicted. “Others saw me remove my helmet. And my reasons were selfish. I just wanted him to see my face and to see him in return.” 

The Armorer cocked her head. “There are other Mandalorians, Din Djarin. Those who do not adhere so strictly to the creed in regards to taking off their helmets, but keep their armor and remain Mandalorian.”

Some of the tribe grew loud in their exclamations of disapproval, but the Armorer silenced them with a look. 

“I’ve met such Mandalorians,” Din admitted, voice pitched low. “And I don’t deny them their identity. But that’s not how I was raised. I was raised in this tribe and taught that to remove one’s helmet before others would mean I couldn’t put it on again. I want to respect the way as I was taught it and the people who taught it to me.”

“Hm,” the Armorer hummed, sounding unconvinced. 

Din’s mouth quirked in an almost smile. “Why does it feel like you’re trying to help me keep possession of the armor?”

Paz also wondered about that. 

“Because I am,” the Armorer said without hesitation or deceit. “You are an honorable man, Din Djarin. One who has always followed the Resol’nare. You are a skilled warrior, a provider for the tribe, and you value foundlings as you ought. It seems to me it would be a great shame to lose such a Mandalorian when we are so few and our enemies many.”

“I’m sorry,” Din told her, voice husky and eyes watery. They were so brown. Paz couldn’t believe he forgot how brown Din’s eyes were. 

“As am I,” she said, voice gentling somewhat. She was not a gentle Mandalorian, but she valued the tribe and the way and this felt like a blow to both. 

Din nodded, throat bobbing as he swallowed harshly. He met the Armorer’s visor. “I have something else for you before I go.”

Paz and the other Mandalorians along the forge walls watched in silence, the somber moment suppressing any complaint or condemnation. 

Din reached for his belt, removed something, and slid it across the table to the Armorer. 

Shouts and exclamations rang off the stone walls of their new forge. 

Din looked around as if they were all insane, eyebrows rising in bemusement. 

The Armorer sat stiff, shoulders rigid and hands clenching and unclenching. This was the most ruffled they had ever seen her. “Compose yourselves,” she ordered, head snapping around to chastise the tribe for their shocked ruckus. They quieted. 

She took a moment and breathed in deeply. 

“The Darksaber,” she muttered, voice pitched low in awe. 

“Yes,” Din confirmed as if he were answering a simple question and not revealing something impossible, something that changed everything. 

“How did you come by this weapon?” She inquired, voice rising to her normal volume. 

“It was in Moff Gideon’s possession-” The tribe spat, cursed, and hissed at the information. “-when he took my child. I rescued the child and took the Moff captive.”

“You defeated him in fair combat?” The Armorer asked, anticipation in the way she leaned ever so slightly forward.

Din’s shoulders slumped and he looked exhausted. “Yes.”

The tribe was so silent Paz doubted they even breathed. 

“I tried to yield it to Bo-Katan of Clan Kryze,” Din continued, mouth a flat line. 

“You tried to give it to a Kryze?” Paz shouted, offense putting his hackles up. A Kryze, of all the fool things. 

The Armorer quelled him with a silent turn of her helmet before once more addressing Din. “I know of Bo-Katan. She did not accept?”

“No.”

“Curious. I would not have expected that of her,” the Armorer hummed. “You know of the Darksaber’s importance, Din Djarin?”

“Only what Bo-Katan and the Moff have said,” Din admitted. “That it must be won and symbolizes the right to rule Mandalore.”

While learning of the Darksaber from Bo-Katan Kryze and a Moff of all people would be a shocking thing for someone like Paz to admit to, it made sense for Din. 

Din was a foundling raised in the fighting corps and mentored by the old beroya who was also a foundling. Their tribe also avoided mention of the other factions of Mandalorians in an attempt to reject the civil conflict and cultural decline that ultimately brought about Mandalore’s destruction. The Darksaber played a great role in those chain of events and so it was rarely spoken of even within clans. 

Din was perfectly positioned within the tribe to have never heard of the Darksaber or the legend attached to it. 

“And so it does and so it has since the Darksaber was recovered and wielded by Clan Vizsla all those generations ago.”

The Armorer let the weight of her words linger in the tense, heated air around them. 

“You have made this a great deal easier on me,” the Armorer said at last, a perceptible thread of amusement in her voice. “I cannot take your armor. You must keep it and wear it with honor.”

Din blinked and frowned heavily as she pushed his helmet and vambrace back at him. “I can’t. I broke the creed.”

“Perhaps. And that is something you must reconcile within yourself as you contemplate how you walk the way.” The Armorer crossed her arms. “But even so, the armor is yours. After all, I can hardly take beskar armor from the Mand’alor.”

And she was right. Paz knew it. The tribe knew it. They followed the Resol’nare and that was a part of it. One of their six foundational tenets. To rally for the cause of the Mand’alor. 

And that meant rallying for Din. 

“I can’t wield this,” Din said, panic in his voice and in the haunted darting of his eyes. “It’s why I’m giving it to you.”

He pushed the Darksaber closer towards the Armorer and farther away from him. 

“It cannot be mine, lest I challenge you and win.” Din perked up, actually looking excited at the prospect, but he deflated when the Armorer continued, “And I will do no such thing. You are our leader now, Din Djarin. And you have my support.”

Din looked around the tribe, seeking an ally in delegitimizing his claim. Din’s gaze fell on Paz, who felt himself straighten, but then he looked to the others around Paz - Paz’s sister, his cousins, their children. Except he wasn’t looking at them so much as their signet, the mark of Clan Vizsla. He sat up and faced the Armorer.

“You said the Darksaber was connected to Clan Vizsla,” Din said, voice careful, but thrumming with energy. 

“Yes. The weapon was crafted by Tarre Vizsla long ago and passed down to those of that line for several generations.”

“So it is theirs,” Din said at once, latching onto the information. He glanced at Paz and his clan before meeting the Armorer’s visor once more. “And I return it in honor of their ancestral right.”

Paz felt the full force of the tribe’s attention, as did his clan if the shifting and muttered curses were anything to go by. Unlike Din, they knew of the Darksaber. They also knew how decades before those of their clan used it in a way that precipitated the end of Mandalore. None of them spoke. 

“No,” the Armorer said, clipped and unbending. “Even they would not be recognized as the rightful holders of the weapon. Not unless a member of Clan Vizsla challenges you…”

She tipped her helmet in their direction, words trailing off as she awaited the clan’s decision. It was their right to challenge, as it was the right of any of the tribe. 

Paz felt his throat tighten as Din looked at him, actually looked at him. Not his sister or her children or any of Paz’s cousins or the other members of the clan. But Paz. 

He didn’t seem resigned or fearful or angry or aggressive. 

Instead he looked expectant.

He looked directly at Paz’s visor, clearly believing Paz would think him undeserving and challenge him for it. 

Paz stared at him long enough that Din’s eyebrows started to move up towards his hairline. 

Paz’s eyes followed the swoop of a stray curl, taking note of Din’s soft brown, helmet mussed hair. It looked curlier than Paz remembered. Had he really forgotten what Din’s hair looked like? Or had it changed since childhood? 

“I support Din Djarin’s claim as Mand’alor,” Paz said, voice raspy. “I will not challenge.”

“Nor I,” his sister said. 

The rest of the clan denied the right to challenge as well, all nodding towards Din to physically show their support. 

“Who here would challenge Din Djarin’s right?” The Armorer inquired, tone serious. “Speak now and we will observe a fair and just combat.”

The silence was telling. 

Din squeezed his eyes shut tight, head bowing slightly. He reached for his vambrace first, replacing it in a practiced, habitual motion. Then he grabbed the helmet and slowly slid it back on. 

The Armorer ticked her head, an amused if minor gesture. “This is the way.”

“This is the way,” the rest of the tribe repeated, all doubt gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bo-Katan, clutching her helmet: Why do I suddenly have the biggest headache?


	8. Chapter 8

**The Victor**

  
  


Other Mandalorians came to investigate the truth of their new Mand’alor. 

After meeting Din, all swore their support. 

None were so strict as Paz’s tribe, but all were welcomed to the covert - if warily. 

The Armorer was right. They were few and their enemies many. 

Civil strife was a luxury of the old Mandalore. 

Now all was settled on a training mat or after a few too many drinks and forgotten the next day. Even if the bruises and breaks took a little while longer to heal. 

\- - -

The first challenger to oppose Din reminded Paz of himself, something he didn’t particularly enjoy admitting even in the privacy of his own mind. 

Especially when the Mandalorian strode up to Din, finger pointed in accusation. 

“You don’t deserve the Darksaber or the power it grants,” he snarled. “And I challenge you for it.”

Helmet and armor on, Din calmly asked, “Where’s your boss?”

The man sneered. 

“You know this man?” The Armorer looked between the two of them before dismissing the man and focusing instead on Din. 

“Axe Woves,” Din said easily. “He runs with Bo-Katan.”

Paz, his tribe, and a few of the newcomers (some helmeted, others not) all scoffed. 

“She is the rightful heir,” Axe told them with absolute devotion. 

“You would have us support a Mandalorian who has lost the Darksaber once already?” The Armorer inquired lightly. 

“She has dedicated her life to restoring Mandalore to us. Better to follow her than this ignorant bounty hunter,” Axe spat, stretching out the syllables of ‘bounty hunter’ like the worst of curses. 

“Where is she?” Din asked again. 

“She doesn’t know I’m here,” Axe told them, lip curled in his anger. 

“Never took you for a mutineer,” Din noted. 

“I’m no mutineer. I will win the Darksaber from you. And then I’ll fight Bo-Katan in a fair challenge.”

“You would enter a challenge expecting to lose?” the Armorer sounded thoroughly unimpressed.

“I know her,” Axe defended. “I’ll fight well, but she’s a superior warrior.”

Paz wondered if the man thought this through at all. 

“I don’t think your boss is going to be happy about this,” Din informed Axe. “She hasn’t shown up herself and I don’t think she wants you fighting this battle for her.”

“She has more important concerns,” Axe snapped out. “You’re unworthy of her attention and unworthy to lead. Do you accept my challenge or are you a coward as well as a false Mand’alor?”

“Rules?” Din asked, voice giving nothing away. 

“None,” Axe hissed. 

“To a yield?”

“Or death. Whichever comes first,” Axe smirked, pushing his helmet back on his head.

Din strut forward, beskar glinting in the high midday sun. He slid his spear from where he kept it at his back. “I accept.”

Axe drew his blasters and fired in quick succession, rising up in his jetpack as he did so. 

Din didn’t allow him to find higher ground, activating his own jetpack and using his whipcord to catch Axe by the ankle and drag him back down to the ground. Din released the chord and struck at Axe with the spear, the clanging of it against armor resonating around them. 

Din’s spear knocked one of Axe’s blasters from his hand and the man snarled. 

“You couldn’t even keep to your cult’s ways,” Axe accused. “I heard you removed your helmet despite making such a big deal about us removing ours.”

He turned a flamethrower on Din, who stepped back with a grunt and swung the spear hard enough to hit Axe’s raised arm, shutting down the flames. 

Axe fired with his remaining blaster, Din blocking the blasts with his forearm. 

“Perhaps I ought to take it from you,” Axe continued goading, coming in close and delivering several punches. “Show them all what a weak leader you are. Unable to stick to your creed, unable to defend your own armor. I’d like to see the look on your face at the end of all this.”

Din grabbed the man’s arm and locked it at the elbow, shaking it enough to make him drop his other blaster. 

Axe pulled a vibroblade, aiming at the unprotected gap between Din’s helmet and neck. 

Din caught him by the wrist and kneed him hard enough to double him over. 

Axe stumbled away with a snarl that crackled through his helmet’s modulator. 

Swinging the spear gracefully, Din delivered a series of strikes that had Axe on the defensive now, backing away and blocking his more vulnerable parts.

Din stowed his spear, came in close, threw an arm around Axe’s neck, gripped the edge of Axe’s helmet, and used it as a handhold to spin Axe to the ground.

Axe made to rise as a high pitched crackle of energy zinged through the air. 

Axe froze, visor reflecting the light of the Darksaber held above his head. One slash from the right angle and he would be added to his loved ones’ remembrances. His chest heaved as he sucked in a labored breath.

“Do you yield?” Din asked. 

Axe stared up at him. 

The Mandalorians waited a tense moment, the Darksaber humming.

“I yield.”

“I accept.” Din deactivated the Darksaber and moved away. 

Axe removed his helmet, fresh bruises already making themselves known at the corner of his jaw and on the edge of his sweaty forehead. His brow furrowed as he regarded Din. Paz wondered if his confusion would turn to appreciation and respect as it had with so many other people before. 

“You fight better in a team than you do one on one,” Din told him, a statement of fact and not an insult. He looked at Axe a moment more before he walked back towards the group. 

Paz barked out a laugh as did a few others. The Armorer didn’t make any noise, though there was humor in the way she regarded the defeated challenger.

There wasn’t much to gain in gloating over a defeated opponent, but Paz figured the guy deserved it. Nobody called Din false. Or coward. 

\- - -

Bo-Katan and her companions arrived a few days later, Axe among them. 

She removed her helmet, settling it under her arm, and spoke as if every word stripped flesh from her tongue. “I am Bo-Katan of Clan Kryze. I’ve come to swear my support to the Mand’alor and ask his assistance in reclaiming our home planet.”

The Armorer waited patiently though Paz and a few others made discontented noises at her introduction. Everyone turned their visors towards Din. 

Din sighed. “Yeah, ok. But we’re doing this smart.”

Paz’s eyebrows jumped up beneath his helmet while Bo-Katan’s flew towards her red hair. 

He didn’t like sharing the same shock as a Kryze, let alone this Kryze. 

“Not that there’s a smart way to reclaim a cursed planet,” Din mumbled more to himself than anyone else. 

Paz smiled and he prayed it wasn’t as dopey as it felt on his face. Not that anyone could see it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Axe, slapping on a bacta patch: I admittedly did not think this through.   
> Bo-Katan, slapping the back of Axe’s head: No shit


	9. Chapter 9

**The Man**

  
  


The covert’s new location wasn’t quite as convenient as Navarro, but it did have better views, Paz could give it that. 

He climbed out to the open, nearly stumbling to a stop when he realized he’d interrupted someone’s peace. 

Din’s specifically. 

Din didn’t protest Paz’s unexpected arrival, so Paz picked his way over the outcropping of rocks, heavy boots crunching against stone. 

“You still haven’t learned how to sneak,” Din told him flatly. 

“Heavy infantry doesn’t need to sneak,” Paz shot back without any real heat. 

Now that he was closer he could see that Din had the Darksaber in his hands, fingers rolling the hilt around and around in slow, careful motions. 

Paz settled in next to Din, almost close enough their armor could knock together. 

“Can I see it?” Paz asked, curiosity over this ancient weapon getting the better of him. 

“Sure.”

Din held the Darksaber out to him, but when Paz tried to take it, his fingers tightened. Paz tried to gently pull it, but Din wouldn’t give it over. Paz yanked at it sharply, arm jerking at the sudden lack of resistance as Din finally let go. 

“What the hell was that about it?” Paz asked, staring at Din’s helmet. The dim light of the stars and half moons above reflected softly off the beskar. 

“I concede defeat,” Din said seriously. 

“You’re the dumbest person I’ve ever met.”

“You’re now Mand’alor.”

“This didn’t count,” Paz growled, fighting off a laugh. 

“Clan Djarin supports your claim.”

“I’m going to hit you.” Paz finally gave in and huffed his amusement, shoulders shaking. 

Din just shrugged, crossed his arms, and went back to looking up at the night sky.

Paz looked over the Darksaber’s hilt. It didn’t feel right in his hands, he realized, and when he looked down it looked wrong in there too. He turned it on cautiously, proud of himself for not startling at the sudden noise and brightness. It hummed and crackled and felt like no weapon he ever held before. It also didn’t feel like his. 

Deactivating it, Paz handed it back to Din. 

Din didn’t hold out his hand. 

“Accept it or I’ll make you.”

Unmoved by the threat, Din just kept looking at the sky. 

“Din,” Paz said, exasperation drawing the syllable out in a breath. 

Din held out his hand and accepted the weapon. The Darksaber looked far better gripped by him than it could ever look in Paz’s hands. 

“It’s a great honor,” Paz told him solemnly. 

“That’s what they say, isn’t it?”

Din’s voice was light, but there was a thread of melancholy in it. Melancholy and rejection. 

“Because it is,” Paz grunted impatiently.

“Maybe for someone who isn’t me,” Din said blandly. 

“I can’t think of a better person to wield it than you.” Honesty was stitched into every word.

Din’s helmet turned sharply towards Paz, shock clear in the rise of his shoulders and the sudden stiffness of his limbs. 

“It’s not that surprising a thing to say,” Paz grumbled. “Everyone agrees you’re doing a good job. You’ve united all of us - the tribe, the other clans, the princess…even that crime lord seems inclined to hear what you’ve got to say. There are more of us now despite our losses and for the first time in many years we have a goal beyond merely surviving and saving the scraps of our civilization. That’s no small thing.”

Din didn’t say anything. 

And then he started laughing. Not a loud laugh, but a breathy, disbelieving one. 

“It wasn’t a joke,” Paz snarled, scowling. 

Din just kept laughing. 

“It’s not funny,” Paz insisted. 

“No, no it’s not,” Din sighed, laughter fading. Paz wondered if he still smiled after he laughed, a lingering sign of his good humor. He used to when they were kids. Paz realized that when Din had removed his helmet before the tribe, he hadn’t really smiled. Paz wondered what his smiles looked like now. He was handsome in his solemnity. His smiles would probably be handsome as well. 

They shared a moment’s silence, Din looking back over the view and Paz realizing some things he wasn’t sure he was equipped to handle just yet. 

“You know,” Din said, breaking the silence. “It took being the rightful ruler of Mandalore to get you to finally sound like you might come around to thinking I’m alright. You’ve got high standards.”

Paz blinked out of his emotional stupor. “What.”

Instead of answering, Din stood to his feet with a weary groan. “See you around.”

He left, steps a good deal less loud than Paz’s had been. Din knew how to sneak. 

\- - -

Paz found him out there a few nights later and took advantage of the opportunity. “We were friends,” he said bluntly, dropping down to sit on the rock next to him. 

Din slowly turned to face him. 

“You said it took being Mand’alor to make me like you,” Paz continued on, petulantly throwing a pebble. He watched it skitter and bounce away. 

“That’s not exactly what I said.”

Paz ignored him and accused, “But how can that be true when we were friends. Last I checked you like your friends.”

Din sighed deeply. “Are we really doing this?”

“Yes,” Paz continued ruthlessly. “So why do you think I don’t like you?”

“You pulled a blade on me and tried to remove my helmet in front of the whole tribe after accusing me of cowardice,” Din informed him. 

Paz winced. “Other than that.”

“Do I need other examples?”

“Yes, because I’m going to formally apologize for that,” Paz offered. 

“You don’t have to.”

“Only you,” Paz sighed. 

“Only me what?”

“Only you could think I don’t need to apologize for insulting you in the worst ways our tribe knows,” Paz grumbled. “Why am I surprised? You’re the same man who gave the Armorer the Darksaber as an afterthought.”

Din didn’t respond, looking silently over the night shrouded land. 

“What are your other examples?” Paz prodded. 

“We weren’t friends, Paz.”

“Why not?”

“Because we weren’t,” Din snapped, temper flaring. Paz almost wanted to retreat form the full force of his attention and the quickly bit out words. “I was just some kid who followed you around like an idiot until it got too annoying for you to humor me any more.”

Paz mulled over that. And yeah, from a certain light, that’s exactly what someone could mistake their friendship for, especially if Paz screwed up so spectacularly that he insulted Din and never made proper attempts at amends. Especially then. 

“You never annoyed me.”

The tilt of Din’s helmet was skeptical. 

“You didn’t. I liked your company. I liked you.”

Din sighed. “Fine we were childhood friends. Happy?”

“No,” Paz admitted. “Are we friends now?”

Din shifted, fidgeting his fingers against his thighs. “What?”

He heard Paz perfectly well, this Paz knew. “Are we friends?”

“…no.”

Paz slumped a little. “Yeah. That’s why I’m not happy.”

That statement lingered between then. 

“You don’t have to be friends with the Mand’alor.”

“No, but I want to be friends with you.”

Din dipped his head and Paz badly wished to know what he was thinking.

“Why?”

“Because any who swore the creed would be lucky to be half the Mandalorian you are,” Paz answered lowly, hardly needing to think. 

Din stared at him. 

The quiet was threaded through with a tension that had Paz swallowing against a dry mouth and throat, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. 

“Are you drunk?”

“What?” Paz grunted. 

“Have you been drinking?”

Paz rolled his eyes and stood to his feet. “Do you have to be drunk to respect a comrade and consider them a friend?”

“No, I can do that sober. You, on the other hand…”

Paz snorted and offered his hand. 

Din accepted, releasing Paz’s grip too soon after he had his feet under him. 

“I’m not drunk.” Paz told him, waving them back towards the covert’s entrance. “And you’re not funny.”

Din just shrugged and followed him inside. 

They parted with nods, the silence more companionable than tense, and Paz had hopes that they really were friends this time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Armorer: I’ve been informed that you have attempted to pass the Darksaber off onto no less than three other Mandalorians and a very surprised loth cat.   
> Din: ...yes.   
> The Armorer: Am I going to have to weld it to your hand, Mand’alor?   
> Din: ...no.   
> The Armorer: Congratulations, you’ve chosen the correct answer.


	10. Chapter 10

**The Father**

  
  


A New Republic ship had found them. 

Just one, and not a particularly large one, but one was more than enough. Even if only a single person left the ship.

“That ship can hold at least six more,” Paz muttered. 

“Less, I should think,” the Armorer corrected. “Especially if they came a long distance and wished to travel comfortably. However, it is armed.”

“Nothing too big,” Din noted, assessing the ship. “But enough to stay cautious.”

Paz, the Armorer, and Din walked out to meet the new arrival, the rest of the Mandalorians who lived in the covert preparing to evacuate the foundlings and fight if need be. 

“Hello,” the arrival offered. She was a small woman who exuded authority and cleverness. “I am Leia Organa of Alderaan.”

Both Paz and Din shifted at that. 

“I am the Armorer,” the Armorer said easily. “And I am aware of who you are, General Organa. Though perhaps Senator Organa is more to your taste? Or Princess?”

The woman smiled, but it was a tight and strained thing. “Whichever address you prefer.”

“Alright, General,” Din said, voice pitched low. “What are you doing here?”

“I seek your help.”

Paz tsked, but Din cocked his head, intrigued. “Our help?”

“Yes.” She glanced over the three of them, eyes lingering between Din and the Armorer. “I’ve heard rumors that there is a new Lord Mandalore.” 

“Perhaps,” the Armorer acknowledge. “Is this something that would concern the New Republic?”

There was an undercurrent to the Armorer’s question, a test more than an honest inquiry. The General frowned thoughtfully.

“I’m not here on New Republic business,” the General admitted. “I’m here with my brother to ask for your assistance.”

“A General and a politician who goes behind the back of her government,” the Armorer hummed. “And a brother who waits aboard an armed ship unseen.”

The General’s jaw clenched, but she clearly recognized the bait laid out in those words.

“There’s something wrong and the New Republic won’t recognize it,” the General said after a moment, her eyes steely but sincere. “The things that have been happening…they’re more than Imperial remnants acting on their own. And I’m worried that something’s wrong from the inside, like a rotting fruit. People and organizations who don’t want the New Republic realizing how severe the situation really is.”

“Your honesty speaks in your favor,” the Armorer acknowledged. She glanced towards the ship. “But we would be more inclined to hear you without the threat.”

“There’s no threat,” the General assured them at once. “My brother waits because he has a child on board. We’ve heard that Mandalorians value the safety of children, but we didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks until we were certain.”

“A child?” The Armorer’s hold on her hammer loosened. 

The ramp of the ship dropped down and the Mandalorians watched warily as a black clad figure descended at a hasty clip, a bundle held securely in his arms. 

“It’s him!” An excited voice declared. “Leia, the silver one. That’s him.”

Paz turned a concerned look to Din even as Din started running towards the blond man. 

“Grogu!”

“Grogu?” Paz asked the Armorer who merely tilted her head. 

The General’s eyes widened, as rapt in her confusion as the rest of them. Din reached the man and held his arms out. The bundle was actually a small green child that hopped from the blond man’s arms and immediately into Din’s. Din lifted him up and the child snuggled into Din’s shoulder. 

“Ah,” the Armorer realized. “The foundling.”

“Huh,” the General smiled. “Cute.”

Din spoke to the child, voice low and gentle. “How’ve you been, kid? The Jedi taking good care of you? Have you learned anything knew?”

The child cooed and smiled wide, ears moving up and down as he babbled back at Din. 

“He’s doing very well,” the blond man assured Din, smiling at the father and son. “He’s a quick study.”

“Good job, Grogu.” Din held his son a little tighter and Paz’s heart gave a corresponding squeeze. 

“I see there is more to this than New Republic troubles,” the Armorer observed. 

The General nodded. “When I told Luke I was looking for Mandalorians he offered to help. He told me a Mandalorian put Grogu into his care and that there were two more on the Imperial light cruiser.”

“And so there were,” the Armorer confirmed freely. 

“You two?” The General looked between the Armorer and Paz. 

“No,” the Armorer answered with a hint of mirth. “Two others. Bo-Katan Kryze and Koska Reeves.”

“Kryze? Like the Duchess?” The General frowned. 

Paz cursed the Duchess in Mando’a. The General focused a narrow eyed look on him. 

“We do not look fondly on Duchess Satine’s leadership,” the Armorer explained, losing some of her wariness now that Din was doting on his child and speaking on friendly, if cautious, terms with the blond man named Luke. 

“Because she was a pacifist?” The General looked close to judgement and Paz felt his temper rise. 

“Because she did her best to distance our people from our own culture and in doing so made Mandalore neutral in one of the most important conflicts the galaxy had ever known. Tell me, General Organa, would you remain neutral when faced with a galactic civil war?”

“No,” the General admitted, shaking her head. 

“No, I did not believe you would,” the Armorer hummed. “How different things might have been if a united Mandalore was there to face the Separatists and the Republic and then the Empire. Perhaps you yourself would not be so concerned with rot within your ranks. But it does not do to dwell on hypotheticals. Tell us more about why you’ve come and we will listen.”

The General took a deep breath. “Something’s happening, something big. Something I cannot convince the New Republic to stop,” she admitted with a tense expression. “Luke feels it. So do I. We’re trying to wipe out the rot, but we only have so many resources without the New Republic’s assistance.”

“And you think we have enough to give?” The Armorer inquired. 

“I don’t know,” the General confessed. “But I do know that there are more Mandalorians left than previously believed. You’re warriors and survivors and you managed to hide your continued existence from the Empire. Which is more than many can say for themselves.”

“How do you think we can help?” Din asked, bringing his son with him to join in the conversation. 

The blond man stood close to his elbow and Paz narrowed his eyes at the space where their arms brushed. 

“I think…the Empire went underground to rebuild their strength and plan for more,” the General spoke slowly, each word given careful thought. “I want to do the same.”

“You want us to teach you how to go underground?” Din surmised, stroking his son’s ear. His child chewed on a mythosaur necklace it wore, the pendant held tight in a clawed hand. 

“I want you to be the underground,” the General said boldly. “I want to create a network that can hide from everyone - the New Republic, the Imperials, whatever else may come.”

“We’ve found children,” Luke told them, voice serious and sad. “Kidnapped children being raised in old Imperial bases. Trained and conditioned against their will, punished harshly if they disobey. They’re replenishing their forces and they’re doing it by stealing children.”

The Armorer’s shoulders went rigid and Paz spat out another curse for the Imps. 

“The New Republic is…doing what it can, little though that may be. Luke and I are doing what we can,” the General said. “But it isn’t enough. And we need a backup plan for the possibility of the Empire’s resurgence.”

The Armorer faced the General, something swirling in the air between them. “For the fall of the New Republic, you mean?” 

“Yes,” she whispered, a pained thing. “I’ve been fighting the Empire since childhood, it was my parents’ fight as well. I won’t just sit back and watch them enslave the galaxy again. I won’t let them win so easily.”

“Grogu told me about you,” Luke said gently, leaning towards Din. “He knows how much you love and care for him. And how much you despise those who would hurt a child. These people have destroyed planets, destroyed the Jedi Order and Mandalore, and now they’re taking children so they can do it again.”

The silence that fell between them was full of anger and sorrow.

“Alright,” Din said, voice tight as he clung to his child. His son grabbed his thumb, holding fast right back. “We’ll help.”

The General and Luke shared a look, the General looking surprised at how quickly they agreed, the man looking vaguely smug and wholeheartedly pleased, as if he knew it would be that easy and had great hopes for what would happen next. 

“This is the way,” the Armorer said, tone approving.

“This is the way,” Din and Paz repeated. 

“Now,” the Armorer said in a clipped and professional tone. “Tell us the plans for this resistance of yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paz, finding out Din and Luke are co-parenting a child together: This is fine.   
> Paz’s sister: Is that why you’ve just punched a hole in the wall?   
> Paz: The two are unrelated.


	11. Chapter 11

**The Bachelor**

  
  


They worked and trained and planned. 

They were busier and more purposeful than ever before. Liberating children from Imp bases and finding them homes, be it within the tribe or through General Organa’s connections and Luke’s Jedi academy. Organizing the underground network of contacts and sanctuaries. Strategizing the retaking of Mandalore. Recovering beskar and stolen artifacts. Uniting and preserving their culture. 

At the heart of it all was Din. 

\- - -

Paz watched Din in the forge, head bent as he told the Armorer of his most recent mission off planet. The carbonite frozen Imp officer sat in a spare room, waiting to be defrosted. 

Paz scowled as another Mandalorian approached Din. 

They spoke, of what Paz couldn’t hear, and Paz grit his teeth as the Mandalorian reached out and clasped Din’s vambrace in a familiar gesture. 

Din said something else and pulled away, leaving the forge behind. The other Mandalorian watched him leave, an admiring tilt to their helmet. 

Paz’s jaw ached. 

The other Mandalorian finally left after a quick word with the Armorer.

Now it was only the two of them and the sounds of the forge. Paz’s eyes lost focus as he looked down the hall through which Din departed.

“Paz Vizsla,” the Armorer drawled, shocking Paz out of his reverie. “I was under the impression you were a Mandalorian of action.”

“What?” Paz asked, genuinely confused and jaw still aching. 

“Our leader is an excellent choice in spouse.” She continued nonchalantly even as Paz choked on his own spit, “He is beloved and respected of his people. He is just and fair, strong and willing to fight. He has shown himself to be a capable and loving father. He possesses much of what we Mandalorians value above all else. Many admire him and would gladly join his clan or make him a part of theirs. You have seen it, have you not?”

“Yes,” Paz grunted. 

The Armorer gave him a sharp and piercing look as if she could see him right through their respective visors. “So why do you hesitate with your own offer?”

The Armorer drowned out his sputtering, her hammer strikes clanging and reverberating off the walls of the forge. 

\- - -

Paz met Din at their usual spot. 

They sat in silence. 

Din wasn’t a big talker and Paz was currently having something of an attack of nerves. Humiliating. 

Paz found his eyes caught on the lines of Din’s helmet, tracing the shape. He wondered at the face beneath the beskar and pulled whatever memory he could of Din’s appearance.

“You have a mustache,” Paz said aloud. 

Din slowly turned his head to face Paz. When he spoke, his voice was dry as dust. “Yes, Paz. I have a mustache.”

Paz sucked in a breath, fighting the urge to yell at Din and cover his embarrassment in anger. “I didn’t think you would.”

“Why would you?”

Din said that so simply. Like a forgone conclusion. Like he didn’t think Paz would ever think about something like that. Like Paz would never wonder.

That somehow made Paz angrier. “Because I want to know what you look like.”

“You saw me…back when I first returned,” Din pointed out. 

And he wasn’t wrong. But he wasn’t getting Paz’s point. 

Losing the fight with his anger, Paz stood up and stomped off without another word. 

\- - -

Paz avoided Din for a few days. He was a little tired, a lot ashamed, and then extremely busy with the storming of an Imp base. 

When he got back Din approached him. 

“You did good work, Paz,” Din complimented. 

And then he walked away, acting like Paz hadn’t nonsensically blown up at him over his appearance. Like Paz hadn’t purposefully left rooms the second shiny beskar made itself known around any corner. Din didn’t ask for an apology or an explanation and he complimented Paz with a plain honesty that was so typically Din. 

Paz badly wanted to follow him, longing pulling at his chest. 

Paz made up his mind.

\- - -

They were training outside, the young ones watching as those with more experience sparred and demonstrated more complicated moves. 

Din stood there with his son, the child under his father’s care for a few weeks while his teacher went on a dangerous quest. Grogu sat on a stack of boxes and watched the training grounds with fascination in his big, round eyes. Din leaned against the same stack of boxes, hip cocked, while he pointed at the fighters and explained moves and the names of certain weapons to him. Paz wasn’t sure if the kid was old enough to understand any of it, but he seemed engaged.

Paz felt a fresh wave of respect and want for Din. The man was already raising his son as a warrior. 

It was a turn on. 

Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, Paz strode forward. 

Din noticed him and nodded in recognition. 

Before nerves could give him pause, Paz declared. “Din Djarin, I challenge you to marital combat.”

Din’s elbow slipped and he stumbled out of his lean. 

The Armorer appeared, steps heavy and deliberate. The sun glinted off her golden armor. “Din Djarin, do you accept Paz Vizsla’s challenge?”

The other Mandalorians paused in their training, all stopping to watch. He heard a few swears in various languages, mutterings about how they were about to challenge or make their own offers. Paz smirked under the helmet. 

Grogu looked between Paz, the Armorer, and Din. He cooed in interest. 

A noise that wasn’t any sort of arrangement of words came from Din’s helmet. Grogu made a face and quirked his head, eyes narrowed at his father. 

Din cleared his throat and said, “What are you doing?”

“I should think that was fairly obvious,” the Armorer told him. “Your answer?”

Din’s visor faced Paz and his voice came out creaky and choked. “You’re challenging me for the right to court me as a spouse.”

“Yes,” Paz answered.

“You want to marry me.”

“Yes.”

“Is, uh, this what the mustache thing was about?”

“Yes,” Paz admitted through clenched teeth. 

“Paz…” Paz winced in anticipation of rejection. “I already know you’re strong enough to take care of me and my clan.”

Paz looked at Grogu and the child joyfully waved at him. Paz waved back. 

“You, uh…” Din cleared his throat again. “You don’t need to prove that to me.”

Paz frowned, wondering what Din could mean. He was terrible at phrasing rejection if that’s what this was.

The Armorer shifted her stance, a pleased looseness in her shoulders. 

“I refuse the challenge on the grounds that you have already shown your strength, ability, and warrior spirit,” Din said in a more formal wheeze. “And I accept the offer…of courtship.”

Paz made a noise that was also nothing like actual words. “…good.”

“Yeah,” Din coughed. 

“A long overdue achievement,” the Armorer said, making the tribe laugh. 

Buoyed by the sudden punch of happiness at Din’s acceptance, Paz asked, “Were you worried I might beat you too badly in front of your boy?”

Din didn’t say anything. 

Grogu looked to his father and let out a questioning, “Badoo?”

Din looked at his son, then at Paz. 

Grogu looked away from his father and blinked at Paz. 

Din stepped forward. 

Paz knew what was going to happen a half second before it did. 

The weakest points of Paz’s heavy armor clad body were hit in swift movements. Paz managed to block about three quarters of the strikes. Paz wasn’t a bad fighter, he was damn good, but Din was fast and adaptable and calculating. 

Deploying his whipcord to wrap around Paz’s knees, Din immediately grabbed his beskar spear and struck out, keeping Paz from doing anything to release himself by forcing him to block the blows and back up, setting Paz off balance.

Din planted the beskar spear into the ground for support and kicked out with a grunt of effort.

Paz swayed long enough to brace himself for the drop. His back hit the ground and he let out a whoosh of air, wind knocked out of him. 

He groaned as the Mandalorians chuckled at his expense. Some of the laughter sounded a little too satisfied for Paz’s liking. 

Din looked down at Paz, looked to where his son perched on the stack of boxes, picked the giggling Grogu up, and then shoved the top box off the stack and onto Paz. 

The tribe guffawed while the child squealed in delight. 

Paz wheezed under the extra weight. 

And then he started laughing. 

He needed to marry Din as soon as possible. 

\- - -

They stood at the foot of the bed, both of them hovering awkwardly. At the same time they began removing their armor. There was a faint tremor in Paz’s right hand that he pointedly ignored. Din wasn’t shaking, but his movements were stilted. 

Soon they were down to their plain clothes and helmets. 

They stared at each other, neither speaking. 

“Kriffing hell,” Paz growled, grasping the sides of his helmet. “Let’s just do it already.”

Din sighed, but he also reached for his helmet. 

They removed them at the same time, meeting each others’ gaze without some kind of barrier or other for the first time ever.

Paz gulped. 

Din tried to smile, but his brow was furrowed in some form of worry. His eyes - brown, soft, emotive eyes - darted over Paz’s face. Paz’s own eyes did the same to his.

Din’s hair was a little longer and he was just as handsome as Paz remembered from the short time Din revealed his face in front of the covert. 

Paz reached out, cupping both sides of his face. He tried to memorize the creases at the edges of his eyes, the lift of his eyebrows, the way his lashes fluttered, the line of his jaw, the color and curl of his hair. 

Din’s eyes widened and he licked his lips anxiously before saying, “Uh, hey.”

His voice was soft and a little rough.

“Hey.” Paz winced at the sound of his own unmodulated voice. “Ugh.”

Din smiled at that and ducked his head, though he couldn’t move far, Paz’s hands still holding him. 

Paz cleared his throat and dropped his hands, suddenly self-conscious. Paz still wore his gloves and he hoped they weren’t too rough on the bare skin of Din’s face. It looked so soft. Too soft for the likes of him to be scratching up. 

He wondered what Din saw when he looked at him. What he thought of his hair, his eyes, the shape of his features and what they made in their entirety. 

Din removed his own gloves slowly, face pinched in a suddenly intense expression. 

Paz felt his mouth drop open as Din put his bare hand to Paz’s bare face, calloused fingers surprisingly gentle. Although he shouldn’t have been surprised. Despite being a feared and mysterious bounty hunter, Din was gentle. 

Din’s thumb stroked back and forth along Paz’s cheek before gliding to brush along the edge of Paz’s lips.

Din’s mouth ticked up in a smirk, a lovely twist that drew Paz’s gaze. 

“You don’t have a mustache,” Din told him, eyes dancing. 

Paz scowled and lunged, tackling Din to the bed and stopping his laughter with his own lips. 

They had better things to do than discuss mustaches. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Din: So when did you fall in love with me?   
> Paz: Hard to say. Probably when you set that person on fire.   
> Din: ...which time?   
> Paz: The fact that there’s been more than one makes me fall in love with you all over again.


End file.
